The hard-Working Coffee Shop Servers Wore the Stars so Proudly
Sometimes what seems to be the simplest solution saves the day!
Christmas time, the early seventies in the capital of El Salvador was surprisingly like Christmas in most modern cities.
Given that this country was rapidly tumbling into civil war and open violence on the streets. San Salvador was a modern, progressive city where factories flourished, as did thousands of storefront businesses. Not to mention a huge industry of all kinds from food producers to suppliers, construction, education, to one of the most successful towel producers in the world at that time.
Tourism was just about to go through the roof, which would have meant untold added wealth to this small country. The war which came around this time put all that on hold.
San Salvador was a bastion exemplifying economic growth for the rest of struggling Central America, with Guatemala being perhaps the one exception which was way out ahead in development and growth. This despite the communists’ best efforts from Moscow through its puppet Cuba. Cuba was doing everything it could to undermine positive economic growth in El Salvador.
It is when there’s a drowning economy that the communist can best set up shop. Its educational system, primarily the universities by sprinkling the teaching ranks with professors, intellectual wannabes steeped deeply in Marxism, was one way for the Marxists to gain a foothold. Another Cuban front were the insurgents, quasi revolutionaries running rough-shod over the countrysides, and as they grew bolder so went the cities.
Not that these countries, back then, didn’t in fact direly need change. It was said that in El Salvador everything was controlled by ‘The Fourteen Families’, an oligarchy. These families ran everything, including the all-important military. I for one feel that dictatorship has no place in modern and awakened society.
But to paint for you what may seem like a rather dismal scenario, what with violence in the streets, the US-backed military committing many atrocities in the pueblos out in the countryside. In all fairness, so were the rebels. San Salvador seemed to make every attempt to carry on, not quite as though nothing was happening. Everyone knew better. The city tried to create a banner year in Christmas sales. After all, this was the time of year that commerce made the sales needed to pay off debts.
On the surface, it all seemed rather business as usual. That is if we could look away from the almost daily protests, up until now, peaceful, marching up and down the capital’s principal boulevards. One day it could be the high school teachers asking for a raise. Or the bus drivers and employees demanding the same. The next day it was the public hospital’s employees, except for doctors and many nurses. The scary ones and more outwardly political were the marches professing allegiance to the hammer and sickle carrying the iconic bright red banners of Che, his handsome, bereted head, fiery eyes, promising material happiness and utopian deliverance for everyone who was poor.
My story is about something that got stirred up inside of the hotel. We had a powerful union headed by a guy, get this, named Lenin! No, that’s not all. The guy who I got along well with even looked like the Russian dictator! He could have been the man’s doppelganger. You know what I mean; they looked like identical twins. So, he was like my ‘little’ Lenin. This guy along with his very sharp union director-comrades, yes the comrade word was used on a kind of regular basis now. This is tantamount to an open admission that expresses agreement with the Soviet Union and all that it stood for in those uncertain times.
During our frequent meetings, in those days it was getting to be almost every other day, that the union members referred to one another as ‘compañero’, which in English one can argue is a comrade. At heated moments these same people would slip into the much scarier moniker: kamarada, this is a more direct comrade and admits an acceptance of Soviet influence.
You might ask, what’s the big deal? Comrade- kamarada, red flags, Che. You would be right up to a certain point. But the big difference here was living in Central America, far, far away from the comforting protection of Uncle Sam and its deep revulsion of anything that smacked of communism, Soviet Union, etc. The fear felt in the hearts of most citizens who owned businesses, from a small, street-front shoe store to a family-owned consortium of fruit juice producers, supplying supermarket chains throughout Central America was a very real fear.
Everyone knew, deeply, that with just enough of the right, (or wrong) influences, the whole damn place could go the way of Cuba. Most of course were familiar with the nightmare that Cuba had become. Up in smoke, run by a cabal of uniformed goons, decreeing to the now enslaved masses (in many ways), or a society gently yet most firmly held in check depending on who was doing the talking, just what was the right way, and the only way to live one’s life.
This piece is not about the wrongs or the rights of throwing out the free market and adopting the Soviet-style of life. This has more to do with a rather humorous incident that unfolded within the hotel, which very much manifested because of the changing times!
“Buenos Dias, Señor.” I looked up to see Lenin's pitbull face bearing down on me. His toothy smile told me that probably it was nothing to ruin my breakfast over.
“Buenos Dias Anibal.” This was his first name. I called him by his first name as I thought that this would soften the hard edges often produced by using stiff titles, like Comrade Lenin, Directorate of the Hotel Laborers, something to that effect. He in turn eschewed Dn. Tomas or Señor Jacobson, preferring the simpler if not colder ‘Señor’. This was fine by me. Perhaps he wished to relay a sense of equal authority, though this was impossible. After all, I was the general manager, he had been an employee who became union Director. But that was one of the union battles: remove the hierarchy. Again, if this was how he felt, either and all were fine with me, not one to put a bunch of stock into titles, as is the Latin custom by the way.
After all, when I was working in the U.S. almost all of my bosses never insisted I name them by stuffy titles, always the first name. The exception to the rule strangely enough was my stint as assistant manager at a Howard Johnson restaurant! The hierarchy was seen as something containing much value and addressing management by last names was perceived to ensure the respect of say a dishwasher to a manager. I always wondered if Ho Jos’s founders were originally military.
My personal philosophy was quite simple; you either earned an employee’s respect or you didn’t. One path led to potential harmony, the other led to a daily, living hell.
“Please sit, Anibal.” He wasn’t accustomed to having a manager ask him to join him at the table. I did. I saw nothing wrong with it. I figured if your self-image of authority was so weak that you forced the union man to stand before you as you ate, then you need to wonder if that’s the job for you. He always seemed a little surprised, but he pulled a chair and sat.
The piped-in music was an instrumental rendition of popular Christmas songs, we sat for a brief, awkward moment.
The bright Christmas lights were blinking and celebrating the season. The air conditioning was doing too good of a job in this tropical city and felt cold. In a strange moment which lasted all of a couple of seconds I was transported to Manhattan, a trip I took once just before Christmas with my family, and an unusually cold front was blasting through. Reality reasserted itself, and I had to force not to smile.
He declined a coffee, but so not to appear desagradecido, or ungrateful, or disrespectful, he accepted a tall glass of water. I looked into his eyes and could not shake the sense that I was face to face with the world-renown Russian Marxist.
“What’s up, Anibal?” We both gazed around the busy coffee shop, some wait staff noticed and whispered about our sitting together at the table. Keep in mind that union directors and General managers were so far apart on any kind of spectrum as to make a social or friendly sitting down most unlikely. Looking out to the street on the ground floor coffee shop, the enormous glass windows were very much on my mind. The reason for this was that at the moment a protest march was making slow, loud progress down the street, red banners proclaiming on behalf of factory workers, probably the worst paid, yelling and clearly glass breaking where they had passed before reaching the hotel.
“They won’t break the windows.” Anibal indicated to the outside.
“How’s that Anibal? Ha, how can you be so sure, remember Labor Day? I hope they don’t break them.” The huge plate-glass windows were tempting targets to the rabble. Some were banging on the panes making them rattle loudly but that was it, nothing came crashing through. I turned to take in Anibal again, who now wore a smug look.
“Because of my connections, I talked to the labor leaders of that group as I do with all the march leaders, that’s why our windows don’t get broken.”
“Well, Anibal, I’m impressed! Thank you.”
He dismissed my gratitude with a wave of his hand and said, “After all Sir, we have to take care of the property, this is how we make our livelihood, if all the windows are broken travelers will not check-in or enter to eat.”
I couldn’t find fault with his logic and nodded in agreement. I sensed there was more to follow. He paused and took in a breath.
“Señor, the servers asked me to talk to you about an issue that has come up.” He watched me for a signal to proceed, which I gave him. “As there are quite a few new girls, and of course they are wearing the same uniform, the senior girls are feeling a loss of identity.” He stopped and watched for initial understanding, poised and ready to provide more explanation.
This was a new one for me. “Loss of identity Anibal, like as though they are not seen as employees with greater experience than the newbies, yes? This is because they all wear the same uniform?”
“That is correct, sir. It upsets the seniors because the customer treats them with no deference, no preference.”
“But Anibal, probably half of our daily coffee shop clients are regulars know full well which girls are, more senior, and which not as much. Surly this…”
He gently interrupted, adding: “Sir, it is the very same old customers who pointed this out. They joke, unfairly so, that now that all the girls are the same that the clients can pay low tips to the old-timers just as they do the new beginners.” I immediately went through a roll call of the ‘old hands,’ the servers, and guessed probably which two or so of them were the ones stirring up the pot.
“Yes, I understand Anibal. No doubt you’ve given it some thought, do you have a solution?”
“I do, sir, but you will need to give it your blessings.”
“Please explain”, I picked up my coffee and took a sip.
“Yes, the solution has to be that we assign permanent zones to the old hands. There are twelve girls who qualify for this. So depending on the shift in the 24 hour day, we will assign them the best zones, the ones where the tips are the best. It so happens that these are areas that are closest to the kitchen and service stations, which means the girls can work a little easier.”
Sometimes, at least in my experience with hotel unions, you want to solve an issue as soon as possible to avoid that it drags on and affects on the level of service. Sometimes this means saying no right out of the gate. Which is what I did. I sensed after he finished telling me and went silent that he wasn’t very sure of the suggested solution as if he knew I’d say no. “No Anibal, can’t touch seating zones and policy, you know that as well. Hm, let me guess, am I right to say that Esmeralda is the one behind this idea?”
Anibal smiled a rare smile. Some gold shone from a tooth.
No windows were broken, and we agreed to take up the issue the next day.
On my drive home that evening, I had an idea. The next day I presented it to Lenin, and he agreed. We made the changes.
Several days later, a soft knock on my office door. Lenin called out, “Señor, may we?”
The ‘old hands’, the ladies who’d been working on the job for years before the new employees arrived, all filed into my office at least all that fit. Lenin led them in.
As a group, they all turned their sides to me to show me the handy work that our local badge maker had done. Each large patch containing the attractive hotel logo had some very serious additions. Each woman now had on their shoulders the number of years they’d worked in the hotel. Some had all the way to twenty, crowding the logo, shiny, gold stars embroidered onto the badge. At first, just a number, say in this case ‘20’ was to be displayed center badge, this was immediately rejected going in favor of one star per year.
This was a no joking matter, and I knew better than to say something demeaning or humorous. But the humor wasn’t lost on me. Neither it appeared was it lost on Lenin. For a moment the spark I saw in Lenin's eye suggested the start of a smile.
I knew how hard they worked. The little I’d waited on tables gave me a respect for servers that went through the roof. It still does. Frankly, I don’t know how they do it, but they do. Serving tables require a special skill set, those who can’t cut it quickly realize it’s not for them. The ones that ‘make the cut’ and will often say they like the job deserve all the benefits they can get.
The crew were pleased with the changes and let me know with positive comments and warm smiles. Some may laugh at slapping stars on badges, this is just the tip of the iceberg, without good servers, there is no restaurant. It doesn’t matter just how special a manager she or he thinks they may be, without good servers forget it.
Years later on road trips and at stops along the U.S. highways restaurant chains, I have seen this same approach to identifying the seniority of server staff.
A final footnote: humor, after all, did find its way into the scenario. Soon after the stars went up on their shoulders, one old-timer had more stars than all others, almost twenty-five, she was thereafter referred to as La General.
